An old man sleeping on a bed.
Machines work side by side.
I can feel his soul drifting out.
He seem so fragile.
Every touch may **** him anytime.

I want to touch him,
But I can’t.

He was once a strong man.
He smells like cigarette in a summer breeze.
His back is like a mirror of his hardwork.
His feet full of scars but strong enough to walk any fields.
His hands are rough.
But his heart is soft.


He kissed me on the forehead.
Lifted me when I cry.
Sweets come out of his pocket when I am sad.

Now he’s lying there like a lifeless man.
Are you following your wife?
I wanted to ask.


I pray he would stay.
A little bit more.
I pray.

My hands are clean,
But I was accused of stealing.
I was left alone,
But I was judge of getting what is not mine.


Am I the suspect now?
When on the first place,
I was the victim.

How could the suspect now
Be the one who is the victim.
And me, as the convicted.

You said it was yours on the first place.
It was also mine when you left it to rot.
I tried to fix it.
Slowly, gently.
Until it shines again.

When you see the beauty again.
You ripped from my hands.
Claiming it was yours
And I;  Stolen it away from you.

I’m the suspect.
The accused.
The convicted.

The real suspect now walked down the road.
With banner on her head saying
She was the victim.

A victim.
A victim with a rotten smile.
Pretending to be nice
When deep inside
Lurks the devil.

Take it.
Take it all.
Leave nothing to me.
Let it rot again in your hands
Until it dims again.

Alchohol taste right
When your heart is suffering.
It’s like dabbing it directly to the wound
And would sting like hell.

I assume that the more I consume
The happier I get.

It’s like a bizzare love triangle
Between me, reality and alchohol.
Pulling me in.
Until my world becomes blurry.

There’s no escape.
Nor I wanted to leave.
It was a dream
Where the whole world is happy.

A temporary bliss.
From the struggling reality
I don’t want to face